Jeeves and the Gangsta Rap
by Pjazz
Summary: Bertie Wooster becomes infatuated with rap music, much to Jeeves' displeasure.When Bobbie Wickham lands Bertie in the soup, will Jeeves rally round?


**JEEVES AND THE GANGSTA RAP**

A Jeeves and Wooster story by Pjazz

2006

Those who know Bertram Wooster well will tell you he is a stickler for his ablutions. One bath a day. No more no less.Thus,I was happily immersed in the H2 and O, singing along to_ 'Gangsta Gangsta'_ by N.W.A. a group of American minstrels I had heard while on a recent sojourn to the Colonies. Their platter _'Straight Out of Compton' _was scarcely off the old gramaphone. Never let it be said that the Wooster's are not 'with it'. We are stuffed to the gills 'with it'.

There was a knock on the door and Jeeves entered.

"Yo, Jeeves!" I greeted him. "Whassup, dog?"

A wince crossed Jeeves' austere features like an errant cloud on a sunny day. Jeeves does not approve of my interest in gangsta rap. Nor does he care for N.W.A. Jeeves is not terribly keen on N. Certainly not if they display the slightest hint of A.

"You have a visitor, sir. Miss Roberta Wickham. She is waiting in the drawing room."

"Right ho, Jeeves. Tell young Bobbie I'll be with her ere' long. Meantime bung her some tea and pastries as per her requirements."

"Very good, sir."

Jeeves shimmered off and I sluiced the last suds from the Wooster torso. I donned my new sartorial purchase, a rather natty dress robe I had had made specially from a shop in Jermyn street. It was maroon in colour and had the Wooster crest of arms embroidered on the chest in gold brocade. Needless to say Jeeves did not approve. He is notoriously hidebound in these matters. To complete the ensemble I put a Stars and Stripes dohrag on my head. I'd bought this on my recent trip to America. It was not unlike the ones worn by Snoop Dogg, Dr Dre and their chums. Respect.

On entering the drawing room I found Jeeves had served young Bobbie well. A plate on an occasional table was laden with biscuits and sweet meats and she was tucking in like no one's business.

"Yo," I greeted my guest jovially. "Whassup, bitch?"

Bobbie nearly choked on her shortbread.

"Bertie, Is that you? What are you wearing? Is that a hanky on your head?"

"It's a dohrag," I corrected her sternly. "Not a hanky. Now, Bobbie, what brings you to my crib in this neck of the 'hood?"

She laughed like a drain. "So it's true," she gasped, finally coming up for air. "Bertie Wooster's become a homeboy."

"I have developed a certain ear for gangsta rap, if that's what you're implying."

"And what does Jeeves say about all this?"

I bridled somewhat. "Jeeves does not approve. But that is by the by. I am the master in this household, not Jeeves."

"Until Jeeves has to bail you out of the soup again."

"I have no intention of plunging myself in soup so the situation will not arise. Now, what is it you wish to see me about?"

"I need a favour, Bertie. And you're the only person who can help."

"Name it, young Bobbie._ Noblesse oblige_ and all that."

"Well, I'm engaged to be married. To Angus Brompton. Do you know him?

"Old Biffy Brompton? I'll say. I see him around the Drones Club. Plus we were at Oxford together. You've hooked a juicy one, Bobbie. Old Biffy's loaded."

"We've been engaged for three months. The only problem is whenever I try and set a date for the wedding Angus prevaricates."

"Prevaricates?"

"Like the billyho. It's most frustrating. I just can't seem to pin him down and it's important that we get hitched as soon as poss."

"You're not...?"

"No.No. Nothing like that. Did you read about the recent unpleasantness between my father and the tax authorities?"

"Rather. Didn't he get 5 to 10 for tax evasion?"

"Precisely."

The penny dropped. When a gal's father is slammed in chokey a certain tightening of the purse strings was inevitable. Bills go unpaid, credit refused, waiters untipped, hence Bobbie's haste to get her mitts on some of her fiancee's moolah.

"Anything I can do to help speed matters along?"

"Now that you mention it, yes. I've concocted a scheme to force Angus's hand. I've been writing in my diary about a mysterious person with the initials B.W. who I've been pretending to meet for clandestine assignations."

"To make Biffy jealous, you mean?"

"Exactly. If Angus thinks he's got competition he's bound to get a shift on an bung me the question."

"Where do I fit in?"

"Oh Bertie, you silly ass. You're B.W. of course."

It came as bit of a blow. Bertram had failed to read between the lines. It seemed Bobbie had overestimated my willingness to help.

"But I can't possibly be party to this, Bobbie. Once old Biffy dicovers B.W. is none other than his old pal Bertie he'll be round here like a shot to do me some serious injury."

"Yes, I expect so."

"He'll rip me limb from limb."

"Absolutely."

I hesitated. Bobbie did not seem to be overflowing with the milk of human kindness for Bertram's well being.

"You don't seem too dismayed at the prospect?"

"Oh come on, Bertie. You can take one for the team."

"Take one for the team? Biffy's twice my size. He'll throttle me."

"Well, it's too late now. I wrote in my diary I was meeting B.W. at noon today. And I put my diary somewhere Angus is bound to see it."

There came some loud thumping noises at the front door.

"That's probably Angus now," said Bobbie brightly. "Right on time. Now, I'd better go and hide to make our tryst seem more believable."

And with those words Bobbie rose and opened the door to my bedchamber and went inside.

Well, I won't say I wasn't all of a twitter because I was. Twittering like mad. Bobbie's plan, while ingenious in some respects, had one fatal flaw - _viz. _Bertram's violent demise at the hands of a jealous suitor -_ vis-a-vis_ old Biffy.

I had hardly caught my breath, when Jeeves announced -

"Mr Brompton to see you, sir."

I may have mentioned in passing that this Brompton cove was on the hefty side. To see him now, framed in the doorway, he seemed if anything to have doubled in size. It was as if when creating him Mother Nature had rolled up her sleeves and poured everything into the mix. Biffy was built on continental lines. That is, his chin resembled the Matterhorn, his shoulders the Himalayas, while his chest had the breadth and majesty of the Russian Steppes. It was this human colollsus that approached me now. He got straight to the gist.

"Where is she, Wooster?"

I attempted the suave and debonair air of someone who hasn't got someone else's fiancee ensconced in his bedroom.

"Oh hullo, Biffy. Whassup, dog?"

"Don't 'whassup, dog' me, you buffoon. Where's Roberta?"

"Roberta who?"

"My fiancee, Roberta Wickham. The woman who, according to her diary, has an assignation with a certain B.W. at noon today."

"And you thought B.W. was me? Honestly, Biffy. There are dozens of B.W.'s in this city. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. What makes you think it's me?"

"Because you're the only ruddy B.W. she knows, that's why."

"Nonsense. I could name a hundred B.W.'s."

"Oh really? Name one."

"Thousands."

"Just one will do."

Well, you know how it is when you're put on the spot. The mind goes blank. The brain refuses to cooperate with the mouth.

"Umm..."

"I'm waiting..."

"Bert Weedon?"

Poor, I know. But the best I could do under the circs.

"Bert Weedon? You think my Roberta is carrying on with Bert Weedon, the famous guitar player?"

"You know what these musicians are like, Biffy. Men of the world and all that."

"Are you aware, Wooster, that Bert Weedon died a decade or so ago?"

"Goodlord. Really? I suppose that let's him off the hook somewhat."

"Somewhat. Any other candidates?"

I scratched the noggin. The only other B.W. I could think of was Bishop White, a cleric friend of my Aunt Agatha. He was in his mid-90's and so stooped with age he seemed to be perpetually searching for a dropped sixpence. As a contender for young Bobbie's affections he seemed even less likely than the late Bert Weedon, RIP.

"No? Then let me tell you what I propose to do. I'm going to search this flat from top to bottom, and if I find my beloved on the premises I intend to detach your head from it's socket and drop kick it all the way to Leicester Square.I can do it too. You might recall I was a Rugger Blue at Oxford."

I will say this for Biffy - he leaves no stone unturned. Or rather no item of furniture unlifted in his quest. Sofa, chair, chaise longue - all were grist to his mill. If you're planning on moving house give Biffy a call, you'll be packed and ready to leave in half the time.

Finally, having discovered neither hide nor hair of his missing sweetheart, he turned to my closed bedroom door.

"What's behind here?"

"My boudoir, Biffy. Out of bounds, I'm afraid."

"Ho! We'll see about that."

And with that he threw open the door.

Now I expected Bobbie to have had the gumption to have found a decent hiding place. And she had of sorts. She had parked herself Between the sheets of my bed. Her girlish face and red hair poked out of the coverlet and gazed at us as we stood transfixed in the doorway. Not good. Not good at all.

I don't know if you have ever seen dough rising in a baker's oven? I haven't myself, but I imagine it looks something like what was now happening to Biffy. He seemed to be expanding in all directions at once. And turning an unattractive puce clour. In a word - tumescent.

Had Biffy been a volcano villagers living on the lower slopes would have taken one look, cancelled the milk deliveries and headed for cooler climes.

"So! So! What do you have to say for yourself, Wooster?"

"Biffy, I can explain."

"Oh you can, can you?"

"It's not what it appears."

"Oh it's not, is it?"

Now, you may be saying to yourselves, 'the game's up, Bertie, time to leg it sharpish.'

Ordinarily this would be the wisest course of action. Biffy, while ideally designed for squashing chaps on a Rugger pitch, was not built for speed. Bertram, on the other hand, with my slim and athletic build, is perfectly suited for a quick dash to safer parts. Any Bookmaker worth his salt would have made Bertram odds-on favourite in any road race.

However, one factor stayed my hand - or should that be feet? -_ viz_, my clothes - or lack of. I had been roused from my daily ablutions and was still clad in dress robe and slippers. Perfectly adequate for the home, but One simply does not trot hither and thither about London thus attired. Eyebrows would be raised, fingers pointed, doubtless questions asked in the House. And quite apart from anything else, it was the middle of January and freezing outside.

"Perhaps I could be of some assistance, sir?"

"Jeeves!"

Somehow Jeeves had appeared among those present. I hadn't seen him arrive, but then I seldom do. He just seems to appear. I think he does it with mirrors. Or possibly witchcraft and voodoo and sacrificial offerings

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, sir. But Mr. Brompton appears to be labouring under the impression than you are the mysterious B.W.?"

"There's no labouring involved, my man," said Biffy. "Wooster is B.W. Who else could it be?"

"It is not a who, sir, but a what."

"What?"

"What, sir."

"What what?"

"What what, what?" I added helpfully.

"B.W. stands for Brompton Wedding, sir."

"Brompton Wedding? Are you drunk, man? Explain."

"Certainly, sir. Miss Wickham has been planning her nuptials for some weeks. Hence the diary entries. Since her father is currently detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure, she has very kindly allowed me to assist her planning - the catering, guest lists, the myriad tiny yet vital details and so forth."

For a moment the spirits soared. Jeeves, it seemed, had found a way. But Biffy had spotted a flaw in the logic.

"That's all very well. But it doesn't explain why my fiancee is in the bed of this blasted blighter."

He had a point. Wedding planning does not usually require bed rest. Certainly not in the midddle of the day. I confess, the spirits which had briefly soared were now back in the

basement.

"Quite so, sir. But if you'll allow me to elaborate, Miss Wickham was in the process of trying on her wedding dress when she heard you and Mr Wooster without."

"Without? Without what"

"Outside the door, sir. It is common knowledge that it is bad luck for a groom to see his bride in her gown before the wedding. Miss Wickham took refuge in Mr.Wooster's bed."

This item of news seemed to have queered Biffy's pitch good and proper. He stood and scratched the chin. You could practically see the cogs grinding together in his head.

"Hmm, if that's the case, where is this bally wedding dress, eh?"

My spirits, which once again had soared heavenwards, now plummeted to earth. Dashed hard on the spirits these last few minutes, all this soaring and crashing. It seemed Jeeves must now be stymied. A busted flush. That he would hang the head, retire gracefully and leave the field of play, clearing the way for Bertram's ritual decapitation.

Instead, cool as a cucumber, Jeeves opened the wardrobe, reached in and withdrew a pristine white bridal gown, complete with wooden hanger.

The effect on his audience was not unlike that of a magician at a children's party who, demonstarting that a top hat is completely empty, proceeds to pull a fully grown rabbit out to display to all and sundry. Eyes bulged, chins dropped, mouths hung agape. There might even have been a whispered 'coo, blimey'.

It was clear this revelation had hit Biffy hard. He now resembled a man who, nearing the end of a long taxi journey, realises he has not only left his wallet at home, but left the gas on and the bath tap running.

"I...I...I...Is this true, darling? You were planning our wedding all this time?"

Bobbie nodded the bean.

"Oh darling," cried Biffy. "What an ass I've been. Let's get married immediately."

"You mean it, darling?"

"Yes, darling."

"Oh darling!"

"Oh darling!"

And with this final salvo of 'oh darlings', Biffy scooped young Bobbie from the bed and swept out of the room.

I closed the door swiftly behind them, grateful to be finally free of pestilential Brompton's and Wickham's. I would be more than happy to see a lot less of former and considerably less of the latter.

"Jeeves, You have saved my bacon!"

"I am gratified to hear it, sir."

"But how on earth..."

"While I was serving tea, sir, Miss Wickham happened to vouchsafe the details of her plan for enticing Mr. Brompton to fix a prompt date for their betrothal. I thought it somewhat rash."

"It was a stinker, Jeeves. From beginning to end."

"Quite so, sir. And with possible deleterious effects to your health."

"Old Biffy wanted to twist my head off and hoof it along the Tottenham High Road."

"A most undesirable prospect, sir. Fortunately, Miss Wickham was amenable to pursuing a strategy of my own devising."

"She was willing to swap horses in mid-stream, as it were?"

"Yes, sir."

"One thing puzzles me though, Jeeves. My wardrobe, while full to the brim with morning coats, spongebag trews and bespoke tailoring, is normally lacking in the wedding gown department."

"As you say, sir. Fortunately, I was able to procure one at short notice from Jenkins, Lady Faversham's butler, on the floor below ours. He informed me not long ago that her Ladyship kept her wedding dress for sentimental reasons. He kindly allowed me to borrow it."

"So you slipped in a ringer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hang on- won't Biffy notice it's not the same model as seen come the wedding day?"

"I think it most unlikely, sir. One bridal gown is much like another. And Mr.Brompton does not strike me as an acute observer of female fashion."

Jeeves had a point. Biffy, while outstanding at causing mayhem on a rugger pitch, was unlikely to recognise one gauzy piece of white chiffon from another. If you've seen one wedding dress you've seen 'em all, would be his motto.

"Well, Jeeves, I owe you my thanks. But for you it would be a headless Bertram standing before you."

"I endeavor to please, sir."

"This dress robe of mine, you dislike it, no?"

"I deplore it, sir."

"You have my permish to bin it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all. You deserve it. And this dohrag, it also receives your thumbs down?"

"It is a handkerchief, sir. Gentlemen do not wear handkerchiefs on their heads."

"Not even if I tell you I have it on good authority Dr.Dre and Snoop Dogg wear theirs while strolling up and down the boulevards of Compton during their evening constitutionals?"

"Not under any circumstances, sir."

I sighed. I was dashed fond of the thing. Nevertheless, I handed it over.

"Burn it, Jeeves."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"Respect, Jeeves."

"Respect indeed, sir."

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

A contemporary Jeeves and Wooster story? That anachronism Bertie Wooster in the 21st Century - whoda thunk it?

But if you're thunking - sorry, thinking - 'this Pjazz chappie must be off his chump. Send the loony doctors round with copious nerve tonic instanter' I have 2 words for you - Boris Johnson.

In fact, it seems to me the 21st Century is overflowing with real-life characters who could have stepped straight out of Wodehouse no q's asked. Boris, David Cameron, Jeffery Archer, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, Stephen Fry, Camilla, that strict nanny off the telly who makes a living scolding children (how Aunt Agatha is that?).

Can't you just imagine Old Etonian David Cameron legging it round to Bertie's to ask Jeeves' advice on how to become the next Conservative Prime Minister?

"Should I lay it on thick about the Red Menance, Jeeves? Bang on about tax cuts?"

"I think not, sir. Wear an open-necked shirt, smile and say nothing of any substance about anything."

"That'll bring home the jolly old bacon, eh?"

"Conceivably so, sir. The British public has grown weary of politicians who tell them what to do. One who says little but does so in a pleasantly vacant and guileless manner may well prove popular."

"Right ho, Jeeves. V. and g. it is."

If you enjoyed the story(or not) post a review at email me direct at 


End file.
